


Searching for Barry Lowenstein

by Mosca



Category: Sweet Home Alabama (2002)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mosca/pseuds/Mosca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby Ray goes to New York City to find himself. And a certain assistant to the Mayor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Searching for Barry Lowenstein

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AO3 repost of a fic I wrote in 2003, with a few small revisions. Vassilissa and k were my beta readers. Special shout out to United Airlines for showing this movie 2.5 times on a long international flight, because that is how fanfic happens.

Bobby Ray Carmichael went to New York City in search of any number of things, but especially in search of a New York Post reporter named Barry Lowenstein. That wasn't the reason he gave the boys in the bar: he told them that he was going to house-sit Melanie's condo until she decided what to do with it. This left Bobby Ray with a two-bedroom in the West Seventies and the opportunity to remake himself as whomever he wanted. He was thinking of becoming one of those Chelsea gym queens who wore silver lame muscle shirts and spent their nights off grinding each other in clubs, fucked up on E and Special K and whatever other letters were fashionable that month. He also liked the idea of being a domestic, professional gay man: getting a Wall Street job with that shiny University of Alabama degree that so far hadn't taken him anywhere; falling in love with a clean, coiffed guy from Tae Bo class; buying a townhouse on Christopher Street and twin Weimaraners to go along with it.

In the meantime, Bobby Ray got a job busing tables at an Asian-Fusion diner on Second Avenue. Since he didn't have to pay rent, he spent his paychecks at West Village nightclubs, buying Grey Goose martinis for pretty boys in tight jeans. He'd take them back to Mel's apartment and fuck them, remarking in his mind that this was so much better than the redneck mama's boys that he used to take to the Motel 6 on his secret weekends in Mobile. It wasn't just the decor, either. He admired the way these men would parade around the kitchen naked while he made them breakfast, the way they used their lips to condom him with playful caution. Most of all, he adored them for not expecting a second date, not because they had to go home to their wives, but because one hot night was all either of them hoped for. They left him alone to dream of  
Barry Lowenstein.

One day, Bobby Ray worked up the courage to call the New York Post and try to get Barry Lowenstein's phone number. The switchboard operator told him in a maternal but impatient tone that there was no reporter named Barry Lowenstein employed by the New York Post, nor had there been in the past ten years, and perhaps he should try some of the other local newspapers. She gave him the numbers for the Times, the Daily News, and the Village Voice, but he didn't call them. He remembered Barry Lowenstein's voice, plain as day. Bobby Ray began to wonder whether Barry Lowenstein was even the man's real name.

And then, about a week later, Melanie came back to New York. She burst into tears as soon as she walked in the door, sobbing that Jake was a small-minded hick who would never change, and that she had changed too much to think that she could ever be part of his world again. Bobby Ray held her close on the fawn Venetian silk sofa, proffered Kleenex, and promised her that the best and most important parts of her would never change. Then, he made a pitcher of mango daiquiris and a big bowl of Jiffy Pop and watched "The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" with her until she fell asleep. The next morning, she told him he could stay as long as he wanted: she would enjoy having a roommate, and she couldn't imagine a better one than Bobby Ray.

Melanie stayed celibate for a few months afterward, letting her broken heart mend itself, but she didn't mind it when Bobby Ray brought boys home. In fact, she seemed to enjoy seeing him so happy. He made an excellent platonic emergency date; he was fearless with regard to roaches; and he cooked dinner for the two of them at least one night a week. She considered this more than enough reimbursement for his permanent residence in the smaller of the two bedrooms. 

When the Asian-Fusion diner promoted Bobby Ray from busboy to waiter, Melanie took him to a swanky top-floor bar overlooking Central Park and got them both celebratorily smashed on chocolate martinis. A tall, long-lashed guy started flirting with Melanie when she went up to the bar to refresh their drinks, and Bobby Ray encouraged her to take the guy home and have her way with him. Bobby Ray spent that night alone in his room, listening to Billie Holliday, but he was terribly proud of Melanie. 

Melanie fell in love with disposable affairs: one-night stands and brief flings with none of the commitment, some portion of the romance, and all of the sex. "I saw all of the fun you were having," she said when Bobby Ray asked her if she was sure she knew what she was doing. They started going out to mixed clubs and cruising together. Once, they picked up a pair of NYU Bisexuals Until Graduation and traded halfway through the evening. Meanwhile, Melanie opened her fall collection to rave reviews, and Bobby Ray, accepting the fact that he was a great waiter to such an extent that it might be his true calling, college degree or no, enrolled in bartending school

"You know who I ought to track down?" Bobby Ray said one night. "Barry Lowenstein." He and Melanie were in a cab back uptown from Soho. Neither of them had scored that night, Mel because she was on the rag and therefore hadn't really been trying, and Bobby Ray because all the men at the bar they'd gone to were pretentious artsy fags who wanted to impress you with their knowledge of Antonioni films and then make you listen to Arvo Part while they fucked you. But the Manhattans had been delicious, and there was nowhere else in the neighborhood that was going to be any better, so Melanie and Bobby Ray had stayed long enough to get lightheaded but not properly drunk.

"You know he works for the mayor, right?" Melanie said. "Or used to. I bet she's fired him by now. I doubt that woman keeps assistants for very long." She said it with the harsh sentiment of an ex-almost-daughter-in-law.

"I had no idea," Bobby Ray said. "I mean, I called the Post once, so I know he lied-- but I didn't know why 'til now."

"Oh, sweetheart," Melanie said. "I thought you would have figured it out."

Bobby Ray pulled the Manhattan White Pages out of the bottom drawer in the kitchen the next morning. Bartending class didn't start for another four hours, and he had graveyard shift at the diner. The Manhattan White Pages was a source of awe to Bobby Ray. Even with such small print, it took a book that thick to catalogue the residents of a fairly small island. The Greenville and Pigeon Creek White and Yellow Pages were a single volume, together not nearly useful as a doorstop or stepstool. The Manhattan phone book seemed like something that might contain information.

If Barry Lowenstein lived in the outer boroughs or the suburbs, Bobby Ray was fucked anyway, but Melanie was right that this was worth a try. Bobby Ray opened the book to the middle, then flipped to the right pair of facing pages: LOWE-LOYAL. That was auspicious, he decided. "Hey Mel," he called. "There's two Barry Lowensteins. Not to mention seven B. Lowensteins."

Melanie was in the living room, watching the Christopher Lowell show and slurping a fat-free double-shot caramel macchiato. "Just call both of them and ask if they're the Barry Lowenstein who used to work for the mayor. One will say yes, and the other will hang up on you."

Bobby Ray dialed the first Barry Lowenstein. He got an answering machine. Bobby Ray had thought he would remember Barry's voice perfectly, but it turned out he wasn't sure. The simple machine recording didn't leave any hints, but it didn't sound wrong. "Hi," Bobby Ray said shyly. "If this is the right Barry Lowenstein... I'm Bobby Ray Carmichael. We met in  
Alabama. Gimme-- gimme a call if you want to." He left his and Melanie's number and hung up quickly.

When he came home the next day, tired but enervated by his shift at the Asian-Fusion diner, Melanie was in the kitchen making omelettes. "Who's the lucky guy?" Bobby Ray teased.

"His name's Mike. Or possibly Mark. Actually, I think he might be a little..." she clicked her tongue and winked. Bobby Ray rolled his eyes and slunk towards his bedroom. "Oh, and Bobby Ray?" Melanie said over her shoulder. "Barry Lowenstein called. I told him you'd meet him at his place for coffee today at six. I left his address on top of your  
bureau." Bobby Ray was thankful that there was something about Melanie that made her very difficult to want to kill.

Bobby Ray stood at the buzzer board of Barry Lowenstein's apartment complex for a long time before he worked up the nerve to press the button. "Come on up," Barry Lowenstein said, without waiting to make sure that it was really Bobby Ray and not, say, an ax murderer or some Jehovah's Witnesses. The guy who opened the apartment door, when Bobby Ray got there, was definitely the Barry Lowenstein that Bobby Ray remembered. But Barry Lowenstein said, "Well, you've changed a little, haven't you?" as he let Bobby Ray in.

"I've been living up here for about six months now," Bobby Ray said.

"You like New York?"

"It's not for everyone," Bobby Ray said, "but I think I'm one of the people it's for."

Barry Lowenstein brought over a tray with a black china coffee pot, two big black china coffee cups, and cream and sugar servers. He invited Bobby Ray to take a seat. "Wow," Bobby Ray said. "When you said 'coffee,' you... actually meant coffee."

"I-- What did you-- Oh." Barry Lowenstein looked grim and distant. "And I'd-- I'd really like to, but-- but I just got engaged."

"You're getting married?"

"It's not that simple for some of us," Barry Lowenstein sighed. "It's just not that simple."

Bobby Ray stood up. "I'm sorry to have wasted your time."

"No, no, it's good to-- The second I saw you, I thought, 'That guy needs to get out of Porpoise Spit before he fucking suffocates.'"

"Pigeon Creek," Bobby Ray corrected. "But you were right."

Barry Lowenstein cupped Bobby Ray's face in his hands and kissed him deeply. Bobby Ray mused on how little kissing he'd done in the past six months. You never knew what most of these guys were walking around with, and it was better safe than herpes simplex. Bobby Ray only kissed the ones he really liked, the ones he was sure of.

"You'll find him," Barry Lowenstein said, pulling away.

"Who?"

"The guy. That guy. If you'll find him anywhere in the world, you'll find him here. A million gay men, and most of them have a thing for Southern accents."

"That's why I came here," Bobby Ray said, finishing his coffee.

"You... probably ought to get going, then," Barry Lowenstein said.

"Yeah."

"So... give me a call sometime, okay? I'm the first Barry Lowenstein in the phone book."

"Sure thing," Bobby Ray lied. Not calling guys back was practically a hobby for him nowadays. "See you around," he said, seeing himself out.

Bobby Ray walked back to the subway station, observing men with an alacrity he hadn't felt since the first tortures of puberty. It could be that one, or that one, or that one: his Prince Charming, his king of New York City. A million gay men. He'd just have to try them all on until he found one who fit.


End file.
